


Paint it Black: the Portraits of Phineas Nigellus

by Kerichi



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Black Family (Harry Potter), Christmas Epilogue, F/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-27
Updated: 2017-06-27
Packaged: 2018-11-19 19:17:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11319906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kerichi/pseuds/Kerichi
Summary: When widowed Headmaster Phineas Nigellus Black commissions a private portrait, children and unexpected emotions complicate his elaborate plans for a simple seduction.





	Paint it Black: the Portraits of Phineas Nigellus

 

There are many stories between the lines.

— _Caption on the family tree of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black._

 

 

The portraits on the walls were smirking. He did not give them the satisfaction of a look, but Phineas was aware of his predecessors' malicious amusement all the same. It was how he would have felt, were he in their place.

At this moment in time, it was an effort to be thankful that he was not. The girl quietly sobbing into her handkerchief and the boy who kept clearing his throat nervously were enough to make a paragon of virtue lose his temper. He was no such paragon. He was Phineas Nigellus Black, first sorted into Slytherin, then Head of Slytherin House and now Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

As much as he enjoyed the power and standing of his position, Phineas loathed dealing with adolescents. Their hormone-induced dramas grated on his nerves.

This sort was the worst. A trifling incident of Slytherin bullying, a Ravenclaw sent to his office for nicking a book out of the Restricted Section, or a Gryffindor caught pulling a prank were easily dealt with by comparison. Although wizard society was not as oppressive as that of Muggles and their Queen Victoria, unmarried women were expected to stay chaste until marriage.

Parents tended to blame the Headmaster if he expelled their daughters for being otherwise.

He made a steeple of his fingers and leaned back in his chair, addressing the Head of Hufflepuff pacing across the Turkish carpet. "What exactly do you mean by ‘compromising position’, Professor Abbot?  _In flagrante delicto_?"

The tall, thin, man wrung his hands. "No! When the Fat Friar discovered my students, he informed me immediately, so they were not  _entirely_ unclothed when I broke the ward and opened the door."

How interestingly worded that was. Phineas raised a brow at the boy who appeared to have trouble swallowing. "What were you wearing?"

"My tie."

Phineas smoothed his moustache to conceal a reluctant smile that vanished when the hapless girl began to wail.

"Please don't expel us!" she cried. "We have NEWTS in two weeks!" Her face crumpled. "I couldn't help it! I love him!"

"Of course you do." Phineas curled his lip. "Isn't that your House motto? I did it for love?"

In the back of the circular office, Abbot said, "There is no official motto, but unofficially, the students have chosen  _love is all you need."_

Instead of love, they should have had an Apparition Aversion Charm and a better ward on the door. Phineas pinned the seventh-years with a steely look. "If there are any  _complications_ , you will conceal them until you leave school. Another such an incident, however, and I will inform your parents and expel you both. Professor Abbot will arrange  _separate_ detentions for as long as he sees fit." The glance he shot his colleague said it had better be until the end of term.

The girl sniffed. "Com—complications?"

Phineas was  _not_ about to answer that question. "Take her to the Hospital Wing, Professor Abbot, and have Madam Quirke perform a quick exam...and an extensive  _talk."_ He exhaled heavily, wearied by the idiocy of those around him. "You are dismissed."

 

Alone at last, he pushed to his feet and strolled to the drinks cabinet hidden in a bookshelf. He poured a tumbler of Firewhisky and took a fortifying drink before raising his glass toward the watchers on the wall. "One word from you," he said, "and I will have Bosky make curtains to draw over your portraits."

"That seems rather harsh," said a laughing, feminine voice. "I haven't even painted your portrait yet."

Phineas set his drink down behind a vase. "I have commissioned no portrait."

"The Ministry has. It's tradition."

He faced the interloper and felt an odd sensation, as though his world had tilted. Concerned that he might have developed an ear infection, he walked carefully forward. The room did not shift. Relieved that his equilibrium was steady once more, his gaze travelled over the woman's short, curvy frame and narrowed on her face. "You seem familiar. What is your name?"

"Felicity Argo." Her smile widened. "Do you remember me? You claimed I was the worst Divination student you ever had."

Phineas remembered. He had an eidetic memory, much to students' dismay. The phrase brought an image to mind. "That was ten years ago, before I became Headmaster." He grimaced. "However futile, I try to forget that I ever taught Divination—ever taught, for that matter." He flicked his fingers at her hair. "You didn't resemble a walking Dandelion puff then."

She put a hand up to short, flyaway strands. "No, but it is apt, you saying that, since I was a Puff."

Total recall was a curse more than a blessing. He snapped his fingers before pointing accusingly. "You were the bumblebee!"

"Bumblebee?" Hazel eyes widened.

"Bzz, bzz, bzz, always stinging me with questions. Salazar Slytherin, you were annoying. Have you changed in more than appearance?"

"Am I continually pestering you with questions?"

"Hmmm—we shall see."

His former student seemed to find his expression less than daunting. "Yes, we shall." She pulled out a quill and a small book out of a pocket. "To start," she said briskly, "Where would you like to have your portrait painted?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"The background of your painting. Would you like it to be outdoors, at sunrise or sunset, here in your office, or in your private quarters?"

"My quarters," he said. "There are green draperies."

"So you like green. Will you be wearing green robes?"

"I suppose."

She tilted her head. "You used to be clean-shaven. Is the moustache and beard temporary, or shall I include them in the painting?"

He fingered the narrow, close-cropped facial hair. "I used to be married too. Paint them."

The woman's voice was soft with sympathy. "I read about your wife's...accident...last year. I'm sorry."

He inclined his head. Accidental poisoning was the official cause of death. Phineas had construed from the open text on her worktable that his long-estranged wife had seduced her latest lover into trying one of her "eternal love" potions. His lips tilted at the corners. In a way, the deadly brew had been a success. Ursula and her swain would spend eternity together.

"Are the children living with you here at school?"

Phineas blanched. Those terrors, live with him? Perish the thought. "They abide at home with nannies and tutors and such."

"But I read that your youngest was only a few weeks old when your wife passed. Surely an infant needed a father more than a nanny!"

Was the baby even his child at all? The only one he knew for sure was his progeny was the eldest boy, named after his brother Sirius.

Phineas's arranged marriage to Ursula Flint had never been satisfying, but although he had willingly lived separate lives, he did not appreciate having family skeletons dug up. It put him in a snit. "Actually, she needed a wet nurse, but that is none of your concern." His gaze fell to her chest. "Although you would have been more than qualified for the position."

The area in question appeared to swell with indignation. "Size is not a factor in such matters!"

"It should be," he said without thinking.

Her face turned pink, highlighting all the freckles caused by unladylike exposure to the sun. Unnerved by the desire to know if she had freckles on other parts of her body, Phineas turned on his heel and stalked back to his desk. He waved a hand at the calendar. "I do not have a set time available, so I will notify you each day of the exact hour I will be able to fit you into my schedule."

Although outwardly his expression was bland, inwardly he grinned like a schoolboy. His arrogance would ensure that she marched out of his office to demand the Ministry find another artist. He gaped in disbelief when she nodded.

"All right." She consulted her book. "What do you consider your best feature?"

"My beard."

She smiled at his sarcasm. "It matches your wit—very pointed."

One of the portraits sniggered.

Phineas sat in his chair and made a show of examining a piece of correspondence. "You are dismissed." He pretended to be absorbed by a request to donate funds to yet another charitable organisation for children—as though Hogwarts students did not already strain his charity to the breaking point. His nerves tightened when the silence lengthened. Was she studying him, examining his face for professional reasons, or was there some personal interest involved?

He had heard that female artists were loose women, and if he remembered correctly—as he always did—the girl had once exhibited signs of a  _tendre_  for him. Her blushing admiration had been only slightly less irritating than her endless questions. Surprisingly, the thought of her awe was welcome now that they were both adults. After all, as a widower, he was free to pursue feminine company without censure from the Ministry.

Prepared to converse with civility, it was an unpleasant jolt to look up and find that he was alone.

 

Later that evening, following a dinner rendered unpalatable by the sight of the artist conversing merrily with the Transfiguration and Charms professors, he sent his house-elf Bosky to deliver a note.

The next morning at five o'clock, Phineas repressed yawns while the woman hummed beneath her breath in a way he did not find  _felicitous_.

"You keep shifting in that chair. Would you like me to perform a Comfort Charm?"

He shot her a withering look. "I am not uncomfortable. I'm bored."

Her pencil seemed to fly across paper. "You may walk around if you wish. The sketches are only to help me to become familiar with your gestures and expressions. It isn't a formal sitting."

He stood. "Why didn't you tell me before?" Phineas strolled over to look at the drawings. When he observed that his proximity made her nervous, he took a step closer to peer over her shoulder. "Erase that one immediately," he said, reaching down to tap the offending drawing with a fingertip.

"No," she said, continuing to sketch.

He snatched the pencil out of her hand.

She hopped off the stool on which she had perched. Turning to face him, she reached into a pocket and withdrew another drawing pencil.

Phineas scowled. "I do not smile."

She lifted the pad. "This is the way you would have looked if you had smiled with more than your eyes yesterday."

He prowled toward her. "I insist you erase the drawing. You made me look mischievous when I was feeling decidedly wicked."

She clutched the pad to her chest. "Wicked?"

His gaze fell to a parted, feminine mouth. "Decidedly."

The tip of her tongue came out to lick pink lips, as if they were dry. Phineas's own mouth felt parched at the thought of running his tongue along the fullness of her bottom lip. When he saw a blush wash over softly rounded cheeks, he smiled.

She fumbled the drawing pad, righted it, and muttered a spell to erase the sketch she had made. "You were correct. I did not capture your true expression." The curve of her mouth was impish as she began to draw. "But I will."

Phineas imagined capturing her in his embrace. "What if my expression changes?"

She avoided meeting his gaze, but the roses in her complexion were every bit as revealing. "You'll have to hold that thought, then."

He chuckled. "My pleasure."

 

Two weeks later, on the Wednesday of examination week, student and staff tempers were flaring due to stress. Phineas's disposition remained on an even keel. He told himself that his composure was due to inner fortitude, not the daily companionship of Miss Felicity Argo.

Lounging in his favourite chair for a mid-morning sitting, he unconsciously fell into the pattern they had developed. He sat, she painted, and after he got bored, Phineas started a conversation. "Your hair," he said, "is short as a boy's."

"If you're asking why I cut it, I got tired of putting it up, and the length suits me."

He made a non-committal sound. "It's an odd colour, neither blonde nor brown."

"Dirty-blonde is what my mother called it," she said with a tiny smile. "Father was more romantic. He used to say it was like summer sand."

Phineas pictured her lying on a beach, her daring bathing dress revealing shapely arms and calves. He decided her hair  _was_  rather sandy in colour. In order to avoid admitting such a romantic notion, he said, " _Used to._  Is your father...?"

"I'm all that remains of the Argo family. He and my mother were both elderly when they had me." She smiled a little. "I was their only child, a happy surprise."

"I'm sure." Children in his family tended to be carefully planned and looked upon as duties, not bundles of happiness. He himself was a less than doting father, although he provided well for the children, and would certainly never hex them or apply a birch rod to their hands or posteriors.

Memories of his late parents led to another, more tantalising thought. Miss Felicity Argo was without family. There was no one to object if she took a lover, no irate father that would try to force a wedding at wand-point should she become his mistress. His lips curved.

"Sickle for your thoughts."

He was thinking how much he looked forward to hearing her gasp his name, and the pleasure he would take in addressing her as Felicity in return. Phineas looked at her skin and stroked his beard. "Mine are worth a vault of Galleons."

She did not press for details. The look in fine eyes told him that she had a good idea and found the thought enticing.

He continued the veiled seduction during each sitting. His aim was to compel her to declare her feelings, or at least invite him to take liberties with her person. She responded with smiles, blushes, and amusing, increasingly candid conversation, but he never gained his objective. By the time his portrait was completed, Phineas was so vexed; he gave detention to any student who had the effrontery to make eye contact.

"I think it's the best portrait I've ever done," she said after the final unveiling.

He shrugged. "It looks like me."  _Handsome, distinguished, and clever—she had captured him flawlessly._ He gave her a sidelong glance. "How many portraits have you painted?"

Her eyes twinkled. "You’re number thirteen."

He could not prevent his lips from curving. "Your unlucky number."

"On the contrary, I feel very fortunate to have met you. I will miss our...talks...."

Emboldened by her unspoken, yet obvious sentiment, he said, "Stay, then, and paint another portrait, a private commission for my home."

"I wish I could, but I have a client waiting. I'm doing a portrait of Mrs. Parkinson."

Phineas sneered. "If you paint her holding one of the family pugs, you'll notice a marked resemblance between the two."

She hid a smile behind her hand. "Believe me. I'd rather paint another portrait of you."

He thought quickly. "How long will it take to complete the painting?"

"I should be done by the end of June."

Phineas took a breath and a chance. "Come to my home. Spend the summer at Grimmauld Place."

Her eyes were huge. "Painting your portrait?"

He reached out and took her fingers in his. "Yes, as well as becoming more intimately acquainted." There was no stress on “intimately”. None was required. She knew what he implied.

Slowly, she nodded.

Phineas smiled as he brought each of her hands to his lips.

 

 

As the weeks passed, Felicity subtly flattered Mrs. Parkinson in order to speedily finish her portrait. It wasn't her best work, but it did end the woman's constant barking that the painting didn't look like her.

On the return to her home in central London, a mixture of gladness and nervous excitement made Felicity feel like a schoolgirl. She had grown up in the Georgian house built along a private communal garden, and was on amiable terms with the Muggle families that inhabited the homes surrounding the square. They were upper middle class, prosperous and social-conscious, regarding her as "the lady artist who paints family portraits." Her circumspect behaviour reassured them that she was not an immoral  _Bohemian_ , so she was greeted with smiles and polite conversation, although she was not invited to their homes.

She did not pine for her neighbours' society. While sketching little girls playing beneath arches of wisteria at one end of the square, or walking shady paths, Felicity had overheard enough snippets of conversation to know she had nothing in common with the tightly-corseted young women of her acquaintance. They chatted of dressmakers and parties. Their greatest fears were to be caught in the wrong fashion at the wrong time of day and becoming an old maid.

Hers was to never know the kind of love her parents had shared.

Felicity put her thoughts aside as the Hansom cab pulled up to the kerb. She could have Apparated, but instead had Flooed to a wizard-run London hotel from Parkinson House and asked the concierge to hire a cab. It was prudent to give her neighbours the opportunity to see and tell others that Miss Argo had returned to the square that afternoon.

The sight of her Butler, silver-haired and dignified, made her smile. "It's good to be home, Tully," she said, taking his hand to climb down.

"Very good to have you home, Miss Felicity." He paid the cab driver and then followed her into the marbled foyer.

When the door closed, the stiff formality Tully adopted for "the public," as he put it, relaxed. Instead of waiting to be spoken to, he said with a wide smile, "Mrs. Tully has been cooking for days. I hope you brought your appetite back with you from Wiltshire."

"I have indeed." She removed her hat. "The Parkinson's chef was French and temperamental. He overcooked dinner whenever the family did not praise his cuisine to his satisfaction. I think I've lost half a stone."

"Lost weight! I'll soon have it on again," said the housekeeper, bustling into the room. The woman who also did the marketing and cooking for the small household was as tall and stately as her husband. Mrs. Tully waved her wand to send Felicity's hat floating upstairs. "Come down to the kitchen for tea."

"Is Annie still trying her hand at baking?" Felicity asked while they made their way down to the basement.

The colours inside the house were a sharp contrast to the plain, grey brick exterior. Sky and Wedgwood blue, soft greens and pale yellows and greys made high-ceilinged rooms airy and inviting, including the kitchen.

"No, praise Merlin. She's learning Cleaning Charms now, so you may bite into a scone without chipping a tooth."

The neighbours would have been shocked to see the same silver wall lights and flower-sprigged glazed cotton curtains below stairs as above. The prevailing attitude among the upper classes was to keep staff areas as undecorated as possible.

Felicity's parents had felt the notion idiotic. She shared the views which even her closest friends found eccentric. The keys to the mahogany tea caddy, jealously guarded by other mistresses, hung from Mrs. Tully's belt. The staff received a half day mid-week and Sundays off when she was home, and during the times she was away, were trusted to manage the household and encouraged in their increased support of various charitable organisations.

Perched on the smooth, oak chair she'd favoured since childhood, Felicity sipped her first cup of properly brewed tea in weeks. She sighed contentedly. "I always asked for a warmed pot and freshly boiling water, but the maid the Parkinsons assigned me was new and inept at charms."

Mrs. Tully offered a plate loaded with thin, crust-less ham and cucumber sandwiches, strawberries and a scone topped with homemade jam and clotted cream. "To tide you over until dinner," she said.

Felicity's stomach rumbled. "I'm going to miss your cookery when I leave for Grimmauld Place." She took a bite of the scone.

Before the housekeeper could make a remark to match the disapproving look on her face, a girl burst into the kitchen. "Felicity!" The petite blonde wearing a chartreuse and purple dress skidded to a halt and curtsied awkwardly. Her sunny smile became an expression of affected formality. "Beg pardon, Miss Felicity."

Felicity glanced at Mrs. Tully. The woman said dryly, "Annie has discovered Muggle romantic novels. She wishes to be a  _poor relation._ "

"Mother!" the girl scolded, "Poor relations are ever so much more  _romantic_ than servants' daughters." She earnestly told Felicity, "Poor relations are always having adventures and marrying for love." A gleam appeared in round, blue eyes. "Would you mind if I told the Grimmauld staff that I'm your cousin twice removed, and reduced to being your personal maid through my family's tragic loss of fortune?"

Having been friends with the younger girl for most of her life, Felicity didn't take offence at the notion that she would force relatives into servitude. She smiled. "What if there's a handsome tutor or chef who remembers you from Hogwarts?"

"Oh." Annie thought for a moment, and then said, "If there isn't, may I call myself Annette and speak with a French accent, then? I would be vairy good at eet, I zink."

"What if someone speaks to you in French?" Felicity asked, amused at the thought.

"Zat would be vairy awkward," said Annie, giggling.

Felicity burst out laughing and hugged the girl. "I'm glad that you want to accompany me. I've missed our talks."

"That's Mum's doing," said Annie, "She remembers that naughty sketch she found on a table the summer you left school and worries that—"

"Finish the unpacking," Mrs. Tully said sharply.

"Finish, Mum? I haven't started." A look of guilt crossed Annie's face. "I'm not very good at those kinds of spells." Her face brightened. "If you have any plants that need tending, though, I can do that."

"I shall be up to  _supervise_ in a moment," Mrs. Tully said in a dire tone.

Annie turned and fled up the stairway.

The housekeeper appeared so embarrassed, Felicity decided that the best thing to do was pretend the nude sketch she'd drawn of Phineas Black had not been mentioned.

She returned to the table and ate a sandwich. It was excellent, lightly buttered, with wafer-thin slices of cucumber.

"Your parents hope that you will speak with them before you leave," said Mrs. Tully. She inclined her head respectfully. "I shall go assist Annie."

"Thank you." Felicity poured herself another cup of Earl Grey blended with fresh lavender. The tea lived up to its reputation as a natural remedy for stress. Her hands barely shook.

Visits with the portrait of her parents were usually cheerful, if bittersweet, encounters, but this interview was one that she dreaded.  _If only I had painted them with a little less life._  She had never considered that using spells to infuse the oils with magic and enable communication might have drawbacks.

 

Later that night, when the others had retired for the evening, Felicity slipped down to the drawing room. In the large canvas above the mantel, an elderly couple appeared to have fallen asleep on the painted settee, leaning against each other for support, just the way they had in life.

"Good evening, Mother, Father. I'm home."

The couple was instantly awake.

"Felicity, darling, you look tired," said the image of her mother, looking elegant in a cream-coloured ball gown.

Her father, in black dress robes, adjusted his glasses as if to see her better. "Never liked the Parkinsons," he said. "Treated their dogs better than the servants." Long white hair shook. "Your cheekbones are sharp enough to cut bread, my dear. What happened to those dimpled cheeks I loved to pinch?"

"I still have dimples," Felicity said smilingly, "but my cheeks haven't been plump since I discovered that I loved to paint more than eat."

"The new painting is lovely." Her mother gestured toward the landscape across the room.

The willows beside Hogwarts Lake had been a joy to paint, and ably filled the hours between Phineas's sittings.

"If I stare long enough, I start thinking that I see something behind the willow fronds," Father added.

Felicity tried to keep her expression blank. There  _was_ something behind the thick screen of drooping fronds. Before she had painted the willow in the foreground, she had sketched herself and Phineas, reclining, in a clothed yet amorous embrace. "You wished to speak with me?" she asked, hoping to distract eyes that were far too sharp for pigment.

Her mother took her father's hand in hers. "Yes, my dear. Tully has informed us of your next commission."

If her mother brought up the sketch, she would clutch her stomach, gasp that she felt ill and rush from the room. She'd drawn the blasted thing from imagination and classical art, not first-hand knowledge—unfortunately.

"Never met a Black that wasn't a rogue," Father said. "Keep your door locked at all times."

"If you still harbour a partiality for the man, take care not to reveal it," said Mother, "or he may... _take advantage._ " She opened her Chinese fan with a flick of her wrist and began to wave it in short, agitated bursts. "Annie has a habit of reading aloud from those Muggle novels of hers. To be frank, if you were a governess, I should fear greatly for your virtue."

"Reassure your mother that her concern is unwarranted," her father commanded.

Felicity wrapped her arms around her middle. "Thank you for your counsel, but I fear I ate too much at dinner. Pray excuse me." She darted out of the room and kept running until she was safely barricaded in her room. Crossing to the window seat, she removed a rectangular locket and opened it to reveal the miniature portrait inside. If her parents knew that she had painted Phineas in watercolour on ivory as well as in oil for his official portrait, they would not ask for reassurances. They would be resigned to the fact that it was only a matter of time until their fears were realised.

 

Three days later, she was alighting from a cab and resisting the urge to cradle her middle as she stared up at the Black family home. It wasn't that the house was particularly grand or imposing that made her stomach clench. It was her reaction to the knowledge that she would sleep beneath the same roof as Phineas, and in time, the same bed.

The door opened. "Took you long enough.”

She stared up at the man whose lower lip gave him the appearance of a petulant schoolboy, finding his sulky look extremely appealing. "I'm here four days early," she said. "We made arrangements for the last day of June."

"Inconsequential." He swept past the wide-eyed housemaid who had opened the door and took Felicity’s arm to escort her up the stairs. "I wanted you here earlier."

The gleam in dark eyes was what she imagined whenever he sent one of his letters demanding that she "stop dawdling" and join him as soon as possible. Her pulse leapt even more, in such close proximity, than when she only had his miniature to gaze at. She felt the warmth of his hand through her close-fitted sleeve and wondered what it would feel like cupping her cheek. "I'm here now," she said softly.

He smiled in a way that caused a blush to warm her face. "So you are."

 

Inside the entry, a house-elf stood watching them. The broad border on his white tea towel gave him the look of a diminutive Roman senator.

"Kester, send Miss Argo's maid and her luggage to her room," said Phineas.

"Yes, master."

Felicity had seen house-elves devoted to their families, but Kester's reverent tone and deep bow were disturbing to her egalitarian beliefs. Servants should be treated as valued employees, not serfs. She looked away, examining the large, blowsy flowers on the damask wallpaper. The teal, grey, and cabbage rose colours were not those she would have chosen to accent Slytherin green carpet.

"My late wife's handiwork," Phineas said, curling his lip slightly. He pointed to the serpent-shaped candelabra. "Except those. Been in the family for years."

"Since your Norman ancestors invaded England?"

He led her to a staircase. "Normans were Vikings. Plundering was part of their nature." His hand stole up to stroke his beard in a way that made her think he was imagining caressing her skin. "I cannot blame them for coveting such beauteous...lands."

Felicity was thankful the lighting in the stairway was dim. Her cheeks felt hot. "I don't blame the Saxons for fighting. The Normans weren't invited."

A black eyebrow arched. "I don't have that in common with my ancestors. I always wait for an invitation."

Stars above, did he mean what she thought he meant? The wicked smile curving the corners of his mouth revealed that he did. Her heart leapt when he paused on the second floor landing and bent toward her.

_"Arcturus! Give me back my ball!"_

Felicity looked up to see a boy of three or four scrambling downstairs, followed by a taller boy of ten or eleven. Both had black hair and pale, aristocratic features, although the younger brother's face still held a baby roundness.

"Father!" the older boy said angrily, "Make Arcturus return my ball at once!"

The little boy shook his head stubbornly. "It's mine! Sirius gave it to me!"

"Liar! I told you could bowl it, not take it and run!"

Phineas held out his hand. Arcturus gave him the red and black striped ball. "Why are you boys not playing bowls outdoors? _"_

The older boy smirked. "It's a carpet bowl, meant for indoors." He took the ball from his father, giving Felicity an insulting once-over before turning and darting back up the stairs. His brother, who had watched with trembling lips, began to cry.

Phineas stood, seeming at a loss as how to deal with the emotional outburst.

Felicity knelt down on the carpet. "I have an India rubber ball in my trunk. Would you know of a well-behaved boy that I could give it to?"

Arcturus nodded, sniffing.

"Really? Who? Him?" Felicity pointed to Phineas.

"Me."

She wanted to ruffle the boy's hair, but didn't think it proper behaviour for a stranger. She held out her hand. "I'm Miss Argo. It's a pleasure to meet you, Mister Black."

He shook his head. "Artie." Chubby fingers grasped hers and pulled her hand down with a vigorous shake.

"Return to the nursery," Phineas said briskly.

Artie's expression became one that Felicity had seen on his father's face a short while ago on the front steps. She wanted to kiss him, too—except on the cheek. "If you stop by my room on the way, my maid will give you the ball," she said.

"What do you say?" Phineas prompted when the boy stood grinning.

"Thank you, Miss Argo," said Artie, hurrying up the stairs.

Felicity put her hand in the one Phineas extended. "Thank you," she said, as he helped her rise.

He kissed her hand. "I thank you for stopping his caterwauling." He frowned. "Sirius's tutor and Arcturus's nanny do not usually allow the boys to run through the house." He shrugged. "Regardless, I am now free to show you to the studio I had Kester set up."

She could paint almost anywhere, conjuring an enchanted window if she needed additional light, but his thoughtfulness was appreciated. When she was ushered into a sunny corner of the attic, brightened by enchanted skylight, Felicity realised his action had an ulterior nature. Along with the usual artist's accoutrements and a comfortable chair for him to sit on, there was a chaise lounge. Long and wide, with a walnut frame and a beautiful scroll back, the chaise was upholstered in foliage-patterned silver damask that looked comfortable and big enough for two.

"What do you think?" asked Phineas.

"I think I'll be very happy here," she said with a tremulous smile, "but right now it's a little overwhelming."

He moved closer. "I'll do everything in my power to help you adjust to new...surroundings."

She’d read about heroines in romance novels getting "lost" in the hero's eyes and found the notion farfetched until Phineas. He inspired feelings and desires that made her  _almost_ ready to cast off the restraints of parental counsel and societal prohibitions against intimacy outside the marriage relationship. She swayed toward him, unconsciously lifting her face.

He smiled and brushed his lips across hers, rubbing slightly, until she parted her lips. The kiss was slow and sweet; causing her to do something she never had before—to return a kiss.

She was eight and twenty, not eighteen. She had been kissed previously. Some kisses had been thrust upon her during House parties at school, and others had been allowed out of curiosity, to see if an admirer could stir her more than the memory of a sardonic professor. None had touched her heart or made her do more than accept the salute passively.

Now, her lips moved against his, following his lead, while her hand stole up to touch his face. His narrow, well-trimmed beard felt silky as if he used a Conditioning Charm.

He chuckled. "Shall I shave my beard?"

"No. I like you just the way you are."

Something unfathomable flashed in his eyes before he kissed her with a passion that had Felicity sagging against him, clutching his shoulders for support. Her heart pounded so hard, she didn't realise that the sound she heard was a baby's squeal of laughter until a sharp tug at her skirt caused her to look down—into the big brown eyes of a redheaded toddler.

"Hello," said Felicity, bending down to pick up the little girl who stretched out her arms, displaying eight pearly teeth in a radiant smile. "Where did you come from?"

There was the sound of muffled sniggering, quickly followed by the patter of several sets of feet rapidly descending the stairs.

Phineas scowled. "There are three mischief-makers who will be going to bed without pudding tonight."

Felicity pretended to smile at the toddler, although it was Phineas she found amusing. Other men would send their unruly children to bed without dinner. He only deprived them of pudding for afters, and yet acted as though he were the strictest of fathers.

"Mama," said the little girl.

"She is not your mother, Belvina," Phineas said stiffly.

Felicity said, "I do think you're quite the little belle."

Belvina rattled off a string of words that perhaps her brothers or her nanny could decipher, but not anyone else, until she made a grasping motion at Phineas and said, "Dada."

He said, "Am I? I highly doubt it."

Felicity's arms tightened around the child attempting to catapult herself into the arms of the man who backed away.

"Dada! Dada!" Belvina said excitedly.

Phineas's eyes narrowed. "When I discover who has coached—"

"Belvina is your daughter," Felicity cut in, quickly adding when Phineas opened his mouth to speak, "Regardless of her parentage, she is your responsibility and looks to you as father."

"Do not presume to lecture me," he said coldly. "I have never stinted in my duty to this household,  _regardless_ of the children's parentage."

A blush burned its way up from her chest. "I—I beg your pardon," she said, "I did not mean—"

"Say no more." Phineas inclined his head. "I shall disregard this entire conversation and trust that we will speak upon more pleasant matters at dinner." With a slight bow, he turned on his heel and left the attic.

Felicity stared after him incredulously. "Typical man."

"Dada?"

"Yes,  _Dada,"_ she told the child, whose velvety brown eyes looked up at her inquiringly. "He goes on his way, leaving the woman holding the baby."

"Mama?"

Felicity smiled at the beguiling toddler. "No, but I would count myself fortunate to have an angel such as you for a daughter."

A tiny, dimpled finger pointed toward the door. "Go?"

"Yes, we will go find the nursery at once."

 

When they reached the second floor, Belvina squirmed to get down. Felicity set the wriggling child onto the carpet. "All right, Belle, lead on."

The miniature pink silk skirt swayed back and forth as Belvina made her unsteady way down the corridor. She came to a door and slapped the flat of her little hand against it. "Fee!" she cried when it opened.

"Nanny's looking for you," the boy said, shaking a finger. Shaggy black hair hung into a face that looked somewhere between Sirius and Arcturus in age.

Felicity said, "Hello. We haven't met. I'm Miss Felicity Argo. I'll be painting your father's portrait."

"Fornicating with him is what Cook said." Behind his brother, Sirius Black stood with a smirk on his face.

Felicity replied, "A gentleman does not heed gossip, much less repeat unsavoury portions to his younger siblings."

The boy who had opened the door told his brother, "Say you're sorry!"

"No, Phineas, I won't, because I'm not." Sirius turned stormy grey eyes on Felicity. "If you think you'll be our new mother, you won't. Men never marry their mistresses. Nanny said so."

Shaken by his gloating tone, Felicity asked, "Have you no better way to spend your time than eavesdropping on inappropriate conversations, Mr. Black?"

"She'll tell Father," young Phineas whispered, his face crumpling. "He'll leave!"

Felicity placed her hand on his shoulder. "I am not a tattle-tale, and as I have lost both mother and father, I can sympathise with a child's desire that no one replace their parent." She pinned Sirius with a steely look. "However, in return for my pardon—which you shall ask—I require a promise that no further aspersions be made on my character." When he remained silent, she said, "I'm waiting."

"Beg pardon," Sirius mumbled. "I won't talk bad about you anymore." His expression said,  _but you can't stop me from thinking it!_

"Fair enough." Felicity felt a tug on her skirt. It was Belvina. "Yes, sweet?" she asked, crouching down to the girl's level.

"She's a baby. She can't tell you anything."

Felicity did not need to glance at Sirius to know the boy was rolling his eyes in disgust. It was in his voice. She ignored him. "Go on, Belle. I'm listening."

"We call her Belle, too," said Phineas.

Belvina gurgled with laughter. "Na-na!"

Felicity looked over her shoulder to see what the toddler was pointing at. A grey-haired nurse with a ruddy complexion was bustling down the corridor.

"Belvina Genista Black! The household is in an uproar because of you!" She brushed past a hastily straightening Felicity to pick up the girl and shake her fingers at the boys in the exact manner Phineas had scolded his sister. "You imps will receive no pudding this day for your antics. You were to take Belle on a walk in the back garden!"

"I only said I'd take her on a walk," Sirius muttered.

Phineas smiled at Felicity. "Miss Argo brought her back."

"My thanks," the nurse said tersely, before ordering, "Go find your brother, Master Sirius. All of you are in need of a time of silent reflection to dwell upon your misbehaviour!"

In a blink of an eye, the nurse had shooed her younger charges into the nursery and shut the door. Felicity was taken aback by the woman's hostility but determined not to show it. Sirius was watching her. She would not give him reason to bear tales to the servants.

The boy followed her to the stairs. "Nanny spoke to you. That's funny. She told Cook that nothing could make her to speak to a harlot."

Felicity's temper snapped. She whirled around, wand in hand.

The boy's eyes opened wide. "Are you putting a hex on me? I'll tell Father!"

She leaned down to stare him in the eye. "I merely jinxed you. The next foul word that comes out of your mouth will be followed by soapy bubbles. Telling your father is up to you."

"I can't tell him now. I'd get in trouble!"

"Then watch your language."

The area between her shoulder blades itched as she descended the stairs. That must mean Sirius was shooting daggers at her back. Felicity was still thanking Merlin that the boy was too young to work magic when she entered her room to find her friend playing with Arcturus Black.

"Allrighty, here's the tie-breaker. You have to bounce the ball on the floor, against the wall, and into the vase," said Annie.

The boy's look of intense concentration was very like his father's. He solemnly tossed the India rubber ball. When it bounced into the Chinese vase, Felicity clapped along with her maid. "Bravo! Well done, Mr. Black."

Annie grinned. "No need to be formal. Young Artie here's the friendly type, like me. Aren't you, lad?"

He nodded, retrieved the ball, and dashed out of the room.

"Don't be a stranger," Annie called. "I demand a rematch." She straightened the scrap of lace she'd placed upon her head in an attempt to look more maid-like and shook out pink and green striped skirts. "I'm having a grand time so far." She jerked her head toward the dressing room. "You don't want me to sleep in there, do you?"

And risk Annie stumbling upon her and Phineas one night? "No. You need your privacy."

" _My_ privacy? _"_ Annie giggled, bobbing a curtsey. "Yes, miss."

"Oh, hush. Have you unpacked my things?"

"Well, I thought about it," said Annie, "and then I decided against it, because I'd hate to wrinkle your gowns when you're trying to sweep a man off his feet. What if Headmaster Black was about to declare his undying love, but got distracted by a crinkled collar?" She placed the back of her hand to her forehead. "I would never forgive myself."

Felicity walked toward the dressing room, shaking her head over her friend's dramatics. "I think you were the one distracted—by having a playmate."

"Artie is a very mature three-year-old, I'll have you know," said Annie. "He didn't speak much, but what he did say was very clear, with lovely diction."

"And what did Artie the articulate say?" Felicity asked as she used spells to unpack her trunk without breaking the Anti-Wrinkle Charm on the clothes inside.

"Father likes Miss Argo."

A pair of shoes that had been floating in air clattered to the floor. "No!"

"Yes!" Annie ran to pick up the shoes. Instead of carrying them to the wardrobe, she tried them on. "He also said 'I like her too. She's pretty'." The girl turned a foot one way and then another to admire the shoe. "I think the beading on these is ever so lovely." She sighed deeply. "I wish I could afford them on servant's pay."

"I'll buy you a pair," said Felicity, amused by how quickly her friend's expression went from melancholy to ecstatic.

"You're an angel!" Annie put away the shoes. "Now. 'Ow may I serve you?"

Had her friend unintentionally slipped into a French accent? Felicity decided to pretend she hadn't noticed. "Unpack my toiletries and draw a bath, please."

"Oui, Ma'm'selle!"

 

After donning a burgundy dress with a diamond shaped neckline and a long, draped skirt, Felicity touched her hair, trying to decide whether or not to adorn the flyaway strands with jewellery.

"If you wore the French comb with garnets, it would look well with the drops on your necklace!" said Annie.

Felicity looked at her reflection in the Cheval mirror. Held against the garnet drops, the "flowers" on the comb matched the crystals on the necklace. "The comb but no earrings," she decided aloud.

"Never gild the lily, Mum always says." Annie sniggered. "If it was me, though, I'd wear earrings with matching drops and add a few rings and bangles."

"I think Phineas prefers subtlety."

"That is subtle. I said 'a few,' didn't I?"

Felicity smiled. "So you did."

 

 

Phineas was debating whether or not to go ahead and pour himself a drink or wait for his guest when Felicity glided into the drawing room. She looked so elegant and pristine, he wanted to take her into his arms and rumple her up.

Irritated by his inability to do any such thing, he snapped, "Is that gown Muggle-made?"

"Why do you ask? Is there some defect?"

Her laughing eyes made him feel churlish. "No. You look exquisite. It is only that...our society...frowns upon everything that is not wizard-made. I would not wish you to suffer censure."

"Thank you."

The softness in her voice and expression brought back memories of the kiss they had shared earlier. He was tempted to repeat it. Instead, he asked, "Would you care for sherry?"

"Is it sweet?"

His gaze fell to Felicity's lips. "Very."

Her mouth curved. "It is unladylike of me, I'm sure, but I do not care for sweet sherry—or any sherry, I confess."

Phineas took a step toward her. "I dislike sherry also."

"Then you, too, are very unladylike."

He gave a bark of amusement. "I have no desire to be a lady."

"Neither do I, if the price is conforming to societal expectations."

Was she referring to the expectation of chastity outside marriage? His blood surged hot. Phineas discarded his resolve to observe the proprieties and reached out to trail his fingertips down her bare arm. When he clasped her hand, he lifted it to her lips. How fortuitous that she did not wear gloves. He kissed skin that felt like warm silk and looked forward to exploring it at his leisure.

_"Dinner is served,"_ announced Kester.

Phineas placed Felicity's hand on his sleeve. "Shall we?" He led the way to the dining room. Noticing his companion's glances around the dark, ornately decorated chamber, he waved a hand toward the deep green walls and orange-tinted red draperies. Dryly, he said, "My mother was fond of olives."

Her eyes sparkled. "What about you?"

He let his gaze rove over her. "I prefer something sweet."

Her smile was sweetly mischievous. "Pastels?"

When he seated her, Phineas brushed the nape of Felicity's neck as he whispered, "Something creamy."

He was a hairsbreadth away from kissing her when Kester entered with the soup.

"Cream of asparagus!" the house-elf said grandly.

Phineas kept his tone level with effort. "No need to announce each dish."

"Yes, master."

Felicity's lips were tightly pressed together. When Kester exited, her laughter spilled into the dining room.

Phineas reluctantly smiled. "I suppose the soup will satisfy my craving—for now."

Hazel eyes regarded him warily. "Do you...anticipate...fully satisfying your, erm, craving  _tonight?_ "

For a brief moment, he entertained the fantasy of using  _Accio_  to bring Felicity to his lap, where he would kiss her passionately and growl, "I cannot wait another moment." Since she was far more likely to say "I'm not ready" than throw up her skirts, he stroked his beard and said, "Tonight is but the first course."

Felicity was still blushing when Kester served salmon with Hollandaise sauce.

When they retired to the drawing room after dinner, Phineas wanted to draw Felicity into his arms. He refrained after noticing the little gestures that betrayed her nervousness: touching her hair and worrying her lower lip with her teeth. Out of a selfish desire to ensure that both her lips were undamaged and kissable later, he strolled over to gaze at a tapestry.

"That's an interesting scene. Is it Greek mythology?" Felicity had walked over to stand beside him.

"Family history. The House of Black claims Harpalyce as our ancestress," said Phineas. "She's the one the Muggles have caught in a net and are trying to beat to death with sticks."

"What did she do?"

"Took her devotion to the goddess Artemis too far. Not content with hunting animals, she began to hunt Muggles—first travellers, then shepherds, and finally anyone she came across in the forest."

Felicity shivered, edging closer until her arm pressed against his. "She deserved the villagers' wrath, but why didn't she Apparate?"

"She's unconscious."

"Then how did she escape?"

"My ancestor Ignis rescued her. He's the one standing at the bottom left."

"There are flames cupped in his hand!"

"Ignis was well-named. He created a smokescreen and Apparated Harpalyce to safety."

Delicate blonde eyebrows drew together. "And they lived happily ever after?" Her tone was doubtful.

He shrugged. "After a Memory Charm."

Felicity continued to stare up at him. "Why did you tell me their story?"

Phineas smoothed his moustache. "To illustrate what a decent fellow I am by comparison."

She giggled.

He smiled. "See? Don't be nervous. I've never hunted anyone down."

"Have you burned anyone?"

Phineas cupped his hand and concentrated. Blue flames materialised and danced across his palm. "Touch them," he said. "They won't burn."

Instead of touching the magical flames, Felicity put her hand to his cheek. "I believe you." She leaned into him, stretching up to place her lips against his. Her mouth moved hesitantly, as if she had never initiated a kiss before. As he stood passively, her actions became more confident. Her hand slid into his hair to hold his face in position while her lips parted his.

He returned the kiss gently, waiting until she sank against him to deepen the embrace. The urging of her mouth and hands was too enticing to resist. His lips firmed. She tasted of chocolate.

When his tongue began to explore her mouth, Felicity made a sound that hardened every muscle in his body. She desired him. He could escort her to her room, kiss her goodnight, and continue kissing her until she was seduced into inviting him not to wait any longer.

It would be easy to slither into her bed, but would she allow him to stay there? Felicity was a Hufflepuff. She would expect him to keep his word and not take advantage of the opportunity she unknowingly presented.

He had endured one unsatisfying relationship. He would not suffer another one. His encounters with Ursula had been brief and cold. What he wanted with Felicity was far different, and worth waiting until the time was right. After all, he was mature adult, not a schoolboy at the mercy of raging hormones.

"Oh!" Felicity gasped.

He looked down to where his fingers had slipped beneath the low edge of her bodice. Phineas was forced to rephrase his last, thankfully silent, assertion. He was not  _entirely_ influenced by lust, and would therefore control it.

 

After escorting Felicity to her room, Phineas retreated to the library and the one task guaranteed to quell sexual thoughts better than an Impotence Hex: writing acceptance letters.

He despised the task. Every year, he suggested to the Board of Governors that the Deputy Headmaster write the blasted things. After all, he himself was a busy man, and rarely sent the letters earlier than the first of August. Since parents appreciated neither the wait nor the necessity of last-minute shopping, Warwick Selwyn was the perfect solution. He would both enjoy the task and please everyone involved.

So far, the Board disagreed.

This year, there was  _one_  letter Phineas honestly looked forward to penning. He picked up a quill, checked the nib to ensure that it was sharp, and put it to parchment. After heading the letter with the name of the school and appropriate flourishes, he addressed the student.

**_Dear Mr. Black,_ **

**_I am pleased to inform you that you have been accepted to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment._ **

**_Term begins on September 1. Do not bother attempting to owl your rejection. The Headmaster of Durmstrang has assured me that he wishes to receive a transfer student as little as I am prepared to send one. You will not be allowed to remain home under the care of tutors. You will attend Hogwarts as befits the heir of the Ancient and Noble House of Black._ **

**_Yours Sincerely,_ **

**_Phineas Nigellus Black_ **

His son had been cunning, forging a letter, but Vasil Rakovski had seen through the ruse and contacted his fellow Headmaster at once. In actuality, Rakovski thought the boy would do well in an environment that emphasised the Dark Arts, but Phineas had declined his offer. No son of his would break family tradition.

After scratching out a half-dozen more acceptance letters, Phineas was more than ready to retire for the evening. He fell asleep moments after his head hit the pillow, and did not awaken until he felt a kiss on his cheek.

"Felicity," he said sleepily, "Have you decided to skip dinner and have dessert?"

There was a gurgle of laughter. "Dada!"

Phineas cracked open an eye. A brown eye filled his range of vision, scant millimetres away. "Ah!" he cried.

Belvina's head jerked back. The girl began to cry.

"No, no, don't do that! Tears are for Hufflepuffs! Do you want to be sorted into Hufflepuff one day, be forced to join sing-alongs and wear unbecoming yellow? Your mother would be appalled. Get hold of yourself!"

The wailing increased in volume.

The door connecting his chamber to the next opened. Felicity ran into the room. "I—I heard a baby crying," she said, halting a few metres from the bed. "I wasn't aware that my dressing room connected to your dressing room."

She wore only a sheer nightdress. Phineas wanted to open the drapes and let sunlight flood into the room.

"Mama!" Belvina sobbed, holding out her arms.

Felicity hurried over to scoop the child up. "Is she ill?" She brushed aside red curls. "Her forehead is warm."

"From the exertion of disturbing my sleep, no doubt."

"Oh, that's so sweet." Felicity kissed Belvina's cheek. "You wanted to be with your daddy."

Before Phineas could open his mouth to say Gabriel Prewett was Belvina's true daddy, Sirius came storming into the room.

"I received your stupid letter," the boy said, holding up a crumpled piece of parchment. "If you make me go to Hogwarts, though, I will make you sorry! I'll cause so much trouble."

"Empty threats will not sway me," said Phineas.

Sirius's face turned beet red. "They're not empty! I'll pull pranks on every teacher and fail all my classes and...." He glanced at Felicity and said, "And when I get old enough, I'll fornicate behind every sta—ahhh!"

Bubbles were foaming and spilling out of the boy's mouth. Belvina clapped her hands. "Si!"

Felicity looked amazed. "Spanish?"

"It's my na—" Sirius got out before another bubble worked its way out of his mouth. He threw a dark glare at his father, snatched his sister out of Felicity's arms, and stomped out of the bedroom.

"His name. I should have known." Felicity took a step back. "What an eventful morning. You'll find sitting for your portrait dull by comparison."

Phineas gave her a meaningful look. "Hardly."

She backpedalled rapidly. "I must undress—I mean dress—now."

He said, "Would you do me a small favour before you go?"

"Of course. What is it?"

Phineas smiled. "Open the drapes."

 

 

Felicity had anticipated her experience of painting Phineas Black to be much the same as it had been at Hogwarts, with perhaps kisses and caresses beginning and ending each session. Instead, although there was lively banter and heated looks flashing between them, there was something else she had not expected: children.

Some mornings, Artie brought his rubber ball to bounce against boxes and trunks. Others, young Phineas led Belvina up the steps. In the corner where Phineas Nigellus had placed the chaise lounge, the children soon assembled a collection of blocks and tin soldiers, balls and picture books.

Even Sirius wasn’t immune to the lure of the attic. Whether to annoy his father or spend time in his presence, the boy would slouch upon the chaise and read books to his sister, or lead the others in games of hide and seek.

Although she spent few moments alone with Phineas, Felicity would not have barred the children from the attic studio. They were delightful companions with strong, individual personalities. They were also an insight into their father. Through his conversations and observations, she discovered that he was strict, but not harsh, and quick to praise cleverness. He knew so much about his children, from their likes and dislikes in food to the games they enjoyed playing. It made Felicity happy to see that he not only corresponded regularly with his staff, he remembered what they wrote.

 

 

In the first days after Felicity's arrival, Phineas's greatest concern was that his encounters with Felicity would never transition from the drawing room to the bedroom. As the weeks passed, however, another worry arose.

What if he became too attached to her?

He never questioned Felicity's feelings. She doted on his unruly children, treated his prudish staff with smiling civility, and embraced him with a passion that tested his self-restraint. It was obvious that she was falling in love with him. The knowledge was satisfying and flattering.

It was his emotions that were troubling.

What if, once they passed the final barrier, he found that he desired more than an occasional tryst? What if he became so accustomed to her presence in his bed that he wanted Felicity to share it every night? The Board of Governors would never accept a Headmaster openly flaunting a mistress. Affairs were only permitted if they were discreet and not likely to become the subject of outraged parents' letters to the editor of the  _Daily Prophet._

After a picnic luncheon for two ended as a fete that included the children, their nanny, tutor, and new staff favourite, Annie, he retreated to his study to sort matters out.

He made a list. Not on paper, chancing that someone could happen upon it. He composed a list in his head of all the reasons why he should  _not_ make Felicity his mistress. Before he finished, there was a knock at the door.

"Enter."

Kester ushered in a woman whose prune-coloured day dress matched her appearance. Small, old, and dried out, every Black dreaded a visitation from the eldest member of the family. She lived down to the name Petulara: to pester.

"Aunt Petulara. To do what do I owe this visit?" Phineas stood, waiting for the wizened busybody to take a seat before resuming his.

"You have brought disgrace to the House of Black, Phineas Nigellus."

He blinked. Usually, his aunt ran down a few relatives and acquaintances before turning her venom his way. "How so?"

"You have exposed your innocent children to the malignant influence of a  _fallen woman."_

Who had gossiped about Felicity? Cook? Nanny? Kester? He said, "My houseguest is a talented artist, commissioned to paint my portrait. Her influence has been nothing but beneficial." Phineas was surprised to realise how deeply he meant what he had said. He admired Felicity's art and envied her easy way with the children. Even Sirius had become less sullen over the last month.

"She is your mistress! Can you deny it?"

"Yes."

His calm assertion took the wind out of the old hag's sails. She said stiffly, "Very good. Assure me that you do not plan any association with that woman and I will take my leave." Her bushy brows rose when he called for his house-elf.

"Yes, master?" asked Kester, appearing beside the desk.

"My Aunt is leaving. Please have her driver pull the carriage around."

Gnarled fingers gripped an ebony walking stick tightly. "What is the meaning of this?"

Phineas stood. "Good day. Give my regards to Uncle Accursius."

Petulara rose, waving her stick like a sword. "Why will you not assure me that you plan no future dealings with that woman?"

"That woman is Miss Felicity Argo, and my intentions are none of your concern."

His aunt's nostrils flared. "Your intentions _?_ What do you mean by  _intentions?_ Surely not—" She drew in a harsh breath when he strode past without answering. "Your position may ensure you remain on the family tapestry, Phineas Nigellus, but she shall never mar it!  _Never!_ "

Kester stood in the corridor, wringing his hands. "My brother Korvin is in Mrs. Black's service. I spoke too freely during his visit. I will punish myself."

"Your punishment is to listen to the squawking of an old crow as you escort her to her carriage," said Phineas, heading for the stairs.

 

 

Felicity stood before the painting of Phineas Nigellus, paintbrush in hand. The light from the enchanted skylight ensured that she could paint in "natural" sunlight even when the view outside was overcast, like today. She had planned to even up some overpainting, but instead dropped the brush and covered her face with her hands.

"Felicity!" The cause of her tears was striding across the attic towards her.

She hurriedly wiped the wetness from her eyes. "Yes?"

Her deliberately cheerful tone didn't fool Phineas. "You were crying."

He made it sound like an accusation. She would miss the way he tried to hide his concern with gruffness. "I always get emotional when I finish a painting."

"Finished? When? Now?"

She unbuttoned her painting smock and set it aside. "No. I was done a week ago. I didn't want to say goodbye, so I overpainted the border. I didn't need to. I wasn't filling in details...just...adding layers of paint."

"Why?"

Her lips trembled with the effort not to cry. "The children would have noticed if my brush was dry. They're a—awfully clever."

"Yes, they are, aren't they?"

Phineas sounded like a proud father. If her time there made him appreciate how fortunate he was to have such children, she would be happy.

Tears streamed down her face.

His fingertips brushed her cheeks. "I meant  _why_ didn't you want to say goodbye?"

"You know why."

Phineas looked into her eyes. "Because you love me?"

"Yes."

He bent to kiss a tear away. "If I asked, would you be my mistress?"

She remembered her parents' devotion to each other. "Do you love me?"

Phineas looked highly uncomfortable, almost glaring at her as he said, "Yes."

Felicity nodded. "Then if you ask me, I will—"

"Marry me."

She stared at him.

He cupped her face in his hands. "Be my wife."

"Why?"

There were so many reasons. Phineas wanted to keep his position at Hogwarts. He wanted to sleep beside her every night and tell his relatives to keep their opinions to themselves. He wanted society to envy Felicity, not pity her. He thought of Sirius and wanted his children to treat her with respect.

Phineas told her the only reason that truly mattered. "Because I love you."

Felicity smiled through happy tears. "Yes," she said. "Yes!"

 

 

_Christmas Eve, 1889_

 

Glass ornaments from Germany and Russia lay on the drawing room carpet next to sweets, toy swords, miniature furniture, instruments and sugared fruit. Sirius watched with a scowl as his stepmother used her wand to arrange candles upon the branches of the Christmas tree. "I could do that if you'd let me."

"Believe me, I'd let you if the Ministry wouldn't frown upon underage magic outside a school classroom," said Felicity.

Phineas, from his comfortable chair, said, "Let's see if the trace works when you use an adult's wand. Try mine."

Sirius hurried over, his face wreathed in a grin. "Truly?"

Phineas inclined his head toward the wand on a side table. "Go ahead."

"Thank you, Father!"

Artie and "Fin," as the boys preferred to be called, stood on each side of their brother as he sent candles floating around the room. "They'll get to the tree  _eventually,_ " Sirius told them with a grin.

Belvina continued to dig ornaments out of a trunk. "Look! I made this!" she cried, holding up a Dresden ornament. The cardboard butterfly was embossed in gold leaf.

"Yes," said Felicity, "and Artie made the silver fish, Sirius the moon, and Fin the gold ship."

"You made the rose, Mummy."

"I made it for your father," Felicity said in a stage whisper, "because although he's awfully clever, he's not very crafty."

In the middle of a giggle, Belle's eyes grew round. She ran over to Phineas. "Daddy, Cygnus doesn't have an ornament!"

Phineas gently tugged one of three-year-old's curls. "Would you make him one, Belle? As you can see, your baby brother is clever, but he isn't very crafty."

While his children laughed, Phineas winked at his wife and then looked down at his three-month-old son. He smirked as Cygnus proved his cleverness by blowing another spit bubble.

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I enjoyed creating one of the "stories between the lines," the unacknowledged, second marriage of Phineas Nigellus. He was the Headmaster of Hogwarts, and so safe from being blasted off, but as Aunt Petulara (Patterned after overbearing relatives like Aunt March in Little Women and Lady Catherine in Pride and Prejudice) promised, Felicity was never included. Later, their son Cygnus was added to the list of children as though he were Ursula's child. Would Felicity and Phineas have cared? I think not, and I would also not be surprised if the portrait of the Headmaster often slips away to be with the portrait of his second wife that hangs in some secluded spot at Hogwarts. :D
> 
> Phineas's role in OotP and the caption on the Black Family Tapestry inspired this story, along with the Greek myth of Phineas—given the gift of Sight by Apollo, (Divination) angering the gods, blinded, confined to an island, and tormented by harpies until rescued by Jason and the Argonauts.
> 
> The Harpalyce myth inspired Phineas's drawing room tapestry. His letter was borrowed from the one Harry received in SS. The idea that Headmasters should delegate the task of acceptance letters came from there too. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!


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